


Fine Company

by LoveEffect



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Hair Washing, Hair-pulling, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is Impatient, Jaskier | Dandelion is In Love, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Play, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Praise Kink, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, i honestly don't know what i'm doing, this could've been a slow burn if I had any patience, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveEffect/pseuds/LoveEffect
Summary: Even after all these years, Geralt still doesn’t know how to deal with Jaskier.It feels remarkably like one of the many strategy games they played in Kaer Morhen during long winters. Geralt had played his card, and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to make a play.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 723
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The smut's in chapter 4

Even after all these years, Geralt still doesn’t know how to deal with Jaskier. He doesn't mean the talking and the noise and suddenly having a person nearby to protect during hunts, not the floral scents and the jokes and the unasked-for helping hand plucking out griffin feathers and holding out the sack for less palatable alchemy components. He got used to those within the first year, after realizing that he would continue running into the bard on the Path, so he may as well stop pushing the man away. He can deal with the music and the presence and the protecting, he knows how to hunt for two and how to keep a fragile human warm during winter nights.

He’s not entirely sure how to deal with the touching. As time went on, Jaskier apparently became even more comfortable around the witcher. He presses up against Geralt’s side in taverns, he touches his arms to get his attention, he presses a hand to his shoulder if he’s moving to pass him as if Geralt can’t hear him anyway. He steals food from Geralt’s plate and immediately offers from his own as if they’re not usually eating the same thing. He’ll even take a drink from Geralt’s tankard between songs while performing, as if he couldn’t get an ale or cider of his own by flashing wide blue eyes at the barkeep. He’s really not sure how to deal with the easy touches, the familiarity, the gentle nudges and friendly shoves.

He’s also doesn’t know how to deal with the praise. Within a few hours of meeting him, the bard had already composed a ballad that simultaneously raised his reputation, protected the elves of Dol Blathanna from discovery, _and_ helped ensure that Geralt got paid more often than not at the end of the day. And that was truly just the beginning. After every single hunt, Jaskier had kind words to say about Geralt’s strength, or his fighting form. Every time Jaskier manages to pull him into a social obligation and forces him to clean up and be presentable, compliments are practically rained down on him from as soon as his hair is clean all the way until Jaskier goes to fulfil his own societal role as bard, and the thanks and gratitude begin before they even leave the party.

“Now, not to insinuate that the whole feral, sweaty, messy hair look isn’t absolutely working for you, but your hair looks really nice when it’s washed and combed, you’ve got really good hair,” said while pulling Geralt’s hair back into a half-pony.

“I know I picked it out for you, but this tunic really brings out your eyes. Not that they need any help standing out,” said with a cheeky wink.

“By all means, don’t feel obligated to stick by my side all night, we’ve both noticed half the room making eyes at you, go have some fun,” said with a crooked smile.

The words are a lot to handle. Not to mention the soft tones Jaskier adopts when they’ve been run out of a town for lingering too long, making a slight error, making the wrong choice, refusing to kill something that doesn’t deserve it. It’s soft reassuring songs and easy familiar touches and barbed insults of the stubborn nature and idiocy of man.

Geralt doesn’t know how to deal with Jaskier, even after all these years. He doesn’t know the art of wordsmithing beyond negotiating a contract price, he doesn’t know how to give the praise and compliments he knows the man deserves. He just accepts the nudges and friendly shoves, hums and grunts at flower-sweet words, leans a little further into gentle touches, pulls Jaskier against his side when the bard sidles up to him on cold nights.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier isn’t entirely certain what changed, but he, for one, is certainly not complaining. He’s not sure what spurned Geralt into motion, but by all the gods above it’s absolutely delightful. Maybe Geralt finally just got… comfortable? After all these years?

At first, Geralt started leaning ever so slightly into Jaskier’s touch, which definitely made his heart stutter a bit the first few times he noticed. Jaskier had always been a tactile person and he quite enjoys the quick touch against someone’s shoulders or back, just to let them know that he’s moving past them where they can’t quite see him, to let them know he’s still there. He knows for a fact that Geralt can hear his footfalls, no matter how quiet he tries to be, and thus doesn’t need such reassurances, but how is he supposed to turn off that instinct? He was just glad that Geralt seemed to put up with it, and many more touches, but now he seems to nearly enjoy them.

Not only that, but some of the touches are getting reciprocated. Just the other day Jaskier had playfully shoved Geralt’s shoulder after a deadpan rib at Jaskier’s latest ballad, and Geralt had (very gently) shoved him right back. He’d also ~~thankfully~~ picked up Jaskier’s habit of touching to warn, rather than looming just behind him and scaring the shit out of him.

But right now? This very moment is possibly the safest Jaskier has felt in his entire life. He’d slid close to Geralt to leech some of the witcher’s body heat as the night grew colder, and Geralt had reached out and pulled Jaskier in closer. It’s warm, and nice, and he feels so secure with Geralt’s arm around his back keeping him close. It’s so nice, and it’s reminding him of all the feelings he’d tried to bury in his twenties.

Of course he’s tried to keep the flirting to a minimum, the man would have reciprocated by now had he been interested, but how is he supposed to restrain himself when Geralt looks how he does, like dangerous strength and keen observation protecting the warmest heart on the continent? Especially now that Geralt has stopped grumbling at the words and instead just bites his cheek, looks to the side, looks like he might finally be taking Jaskier’s words to heart.

But he can’t push. Gods, he can’t risk pushing too far, getting too close and having Geralt shut down and push him away, he can’t let that happen. So, he resolves to just take what he can get, friendly nudges and shoves occasionally turning into fraternal squabbles, equally stolen food in taverns and pubs, and shared warmth on cold nights.

* * *

Except Jaskier is by no means a patient man nor does he ever let any sleeping creature lie. And _of course_ he could find someone else, the Countess de Stael would take him back in a heartbeat given the right ballad, but she wouldn’t be _Geralt_ and that’s where the issue lies, nobody that he could theoretically fall in love with would be Geralt and it wouldn’t be fair to them to try to love them when he knows exactly what he wants.

He could give up the gigs and the parties and the courts, he would give them up without a single complaint if Geralt asked. He loves this, loves the life that he’s made, loves the little chink in Geralt’s armor that he’s wormed himself into. He loves cleaning Geralt up after a rough hunt, he loves the relentless travelling and never staying in the same town twice, he loves shivering near a fire in the woods and nearly falling over from the blanket thrown at him full force.

And Jaskier never lets sleeping creatures lie.

Geralt has a contract for a nest of drowners in the swamp, and Jaskier stays behind on pretense of new clothes that he doesn’t want to stain with mud and blood just yet. Geralt nods and mutters a soft “that’s fair” that has Jaskier’s heart thumping out of his chest.

It’s just one nest a quarter hour’s walk from town, so Jaskier waits a half hour before requesting that the innkeeper fill a bath. Once it’s full and steaming up the room, Jaskier adds a mere handful of salts—not too many, he doesn’t want any potential open wounds to sting. He pours in a generous amount of chamomile oil just as Geralt enters in a clatter of heavy boots and exhaustion.

“Ah, perfect timing,” Jaskier says brightly, immediately approaching to help Geralt out of his leather jerkin. He certainly doesn’t need the help, but he lets Jaskier unbuckle the armor for him.

Once in the bath, Jaskier starts humming softly and coaxing Geralt with soft touches to let him wash his hair. Geralt peers at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Exactly what brand of favor are you about to ask me for, bard?” he asks gruffly, and Jaskier pulls away with outrageous offense written over his features, though they soften after a moment.

“I have rather given that impression, haven’t I,” he says, wincing slightly. “No favors this time, promise. No parties or banquets or diversions to Oxenfurt. Well, not this week, anyway.” He swallows, realizing that he’s babbling, and he forces himself to look straight at Geralt’s eyes. “I really just felt like spoiling you a bit.”

Geralt blinks at that for a moment, and Jaskier bites his lip to resist the urge to start explaining it away as a rational choice. Finally, the witcher hums and relaxes, sinking low enough for Jaskier to properly wash his hair.

He takes his time, gently using his nails to massage Geralt’s scalp and get out the week or so of rubbed in dirt. He gets a palmful of rose oil and works it into Geralt’s hair. It definitely doesn’t need the help, his hair is glorious on its own, but he knows it feels nice and the rose scent is light enough that it won’t upset Geralt’s heightened senses. Once he’s done, he gently holds Geralt’s head in place for a moment and presses a gentle kiss to his hairline. He stands and crosses the room for a towel to dry off his hands, gives the towel his full attention, a bit scared to see what Geralt’s reaction would be.

He tries to muster the courage to look up but instead just leaves the room, though he can see Geralt watching him leave through his periphery.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: brief drug mention

Geralt tries to keep his heart from spilling out of his mouth as he watches Jaskier leave. He wants the man to come back, keep humming and running fingers through his hair. And he definitely wouldn’t mind more soft presses of lips to clean skin, but Jaskier left the room and even if he hadn’t, he doesn’t know how to ask.

He can hear the cheers in the tavern downstairs as Jaskier begins strumming the opening chords of one of his many songs, and he sinks into the warmth of the bath to listen. He’ll just have to wait a bit and return the affection the only way he knows how—stilted action, stumbling and awkward.

Once he’s finished getting clean, he gets dressed in a clean tunic and mostly clean pants to go downstairs to listen to Jaskier play, as well as get some food that he didn’t have to kill himself. He settles into a corner with a bowl of questionable stew and sneaks a glance at Jaskier, who picks that moment to look over at Geralt. He’s already smiling, but his eyes crinkle a bit more as their eyes meet. Geralt hides the uplift of his lips in a sip of ale.

When his set’s finished Jaskier collapses into Geralt’s side, breathless with adrenaline, and he deftly steals a potato from Geralt’s bowl. Geralt just snorts and lifts a chunk of meat with his spoon so Jaskier can grab at it, which he does with an enthusiastic noise of thanks.

A barmaid slides a tall glass of spiced wine in front of Jaskier, discreetly pointing out a man across the tavern who’s giving Jaskier bedroom eyes. Geralt tries to ignore the little green thing that tries to claw its way up his throat. Jaskier raises the glass to the man, but turns slightly toward Geralt, and the man looks disappointed but raises his own glass and resumes talking to the others at his table. Geralt watches Jaskier out of the corner of his eye, drinking from his ale.

“Never known you to turn down fine company,” he says gruffly. Jaskier goes a bit pink and brings the glass to his lips, taking a careful sniff of the drink without actually drinking any of it. “Just wine,” Geralt says, unable to smell anything other than fermented grape and the heavy spices of the drink. No hint of the slight salty tang of the drug that Jaskier wouldn’t be able to notice in the first place.

“Thank you, dear,” Jaskier says with a broad smile before taking a healthy mouthful of the wine. “But no. Not tonight, I don’t think.”

The barkeeper brings over the stew and bread that Jaskier has earned with his music. Jaskier breaks the bread in half and places one half on the rim of Geralt’s bowl, and Geralt tries not to let the appreciation show in his expression.

Jaskier eats fast, still used to hungry nights sustained on thrown food. He’s always eaten like this, nearly inhaling the food while keeping an eye on the room, though he isn’t tense like one who grew up without steady meals. He simply watches the room; not looking for threats, simply looking.

Once they’re done with their food Jaskier stretches with a yawn and his spine pops, and Geralt follows him to their room upstairs.

Geralt closes the door gently and turns. Jaskier is already out of his doublet, carefully draping the silk over a chair. Geralt doesn’t let himself think, and he simply crosses the room a smidge too quickly to stand in front of Jaskier, who looks slightly startled but not at all worried. Geralt carefully cups Jaskier’s jaw, feels the slight prickle of stubble under his fingers, and presses his lips to smooth cheekbone. He pulls back after a mere moment, completely terrified that he may have crossed a line, but he’s reassured when Jaskier simply looks at him as though he’d hung the moon in the sky. Geralt indulges himself, runs the pad of his thumb over the spot he’d kissed, then retreats fully to sit on the edge of the bed and take off his boots.

It feels remarkably like one of the many strategy games they played in Kaer Morhen during long winters. Geralt had played his card, and now it’s Jaskier’s turn to make a play. It’s easier to let him in like this.


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier stays rooted to the spot, cheek warm where Geralt’s hand and lips had just been. He’s been around more than a few times, he knows how the song and dance goes, he’s familiar with how he feels when he falls in love with someone ~~the gods know it happens all too frequently~~. But gods above, this feels so much warmer and so much _more_ than other times.

And yes, he absolutely wants to jump Geralt’s bones as soon as he possibly can, but he knows he has to wait. He has to make sure that Geralt knows this isn’t just about sex—although to be fair, it really never is. But he has to make sure Geralt knows that. So, he bides his time. He can be patient.

* * *

Except no. He really cannot be patient. He has never been patient, he will never be patient, he is a hedonist through and through, but he does manage to wait three days until they’re in a new inn in a new town whose name he will never remember.

He’s played his set, collected his tips, inhaled his supper, and now they’re both in their room, dressed down for the night, and Jaskier has been torturing himself watching Geralt check over his armor for at least ten whole minutes.

His nerves try to rise in his throat and he swallows them down, closing his notebook and walking purposefully to the chair where Geralt sits. He places gentle fingers under Geralt’s jaw, tilts his head up, and tries not to get dizzy at golden eyes staring up at him. He looks at pale lips, then back to eyes, and moves slightly closer.

“May I?” he asks and Geralt nods, already reaching for Jaskier, so he leans down to press their lips together and swallows the noises he wants to make because Geralt’s tongue is in his mouth but the kiss is still so sweet, sweeter than any honey wine. Geralt lets his armor drop to the floor and tangles his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, and the bard takes it as an invitation. He situates himself on Geralt’s lap, hungry for whatever closeness he can get, and he lets his hands wander over finely muscled shoulders and chest, hidden under a simple black linen shirt.

Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s ass to pull him closer and he swallows the noise Jaskier makes at the pressure and friction. Jaskier pulls back from the kiss and curses, a breathless “fuck” that has Geralt chuckling.

“Only if you want,” he says, voice vibrating right against Jaskier’s chest.

“However you want this,” Jaskier says shortly, brushing Geralt’s mercifully untied hair back from his face. “I will happily take whatever you’re willing to give,” he says, and Geralt pulls him roughly back into a kiss with a growl that goes straight to Jaskier’s dick. He rocks forward and moans against Geralt’s mouth and the witcher bites Jaskier’s lower lip, not drawing blood but still hard enough to elicit a whine.

Geralt shifts his grip on Jaskier’s ass and stands, and Jaskier wraps his legs around Geralt’s waist with a startled laugh.

“Do I even weigh anything to you?” he asks, gently biting right under the hinge of Geralt’s jaw as they walk to the bed. Geralt just hums, though his breathing hitches when Jaskier starts sucking a mark into Geralt’s skin.

Geralt delicately and gently lays Jaskier onto the bed, then recaptures his lips in a rough kiss, grinding down onto Jaskier and humming at the delightful noises coming out of his mouth. Jaskier gets his fingers underneath Geralt’s shirt and hikes the fabric up, and Geralt pulls away to pull it over his head. Jaskier palms him through his breeches and smirks at the choked off groan.

“Be a dear and get the chamomile oil from my bag, would you?” Jaskier asks, smiling sweetly, and Geralt gives a half smile back before crossing the room. Jaskier loosens his breeches and yanks his chemise off. Geralt’s already in front of him, running gentle calloused fingers over Jaskier’s ribs.

“Gods, you’re pretty,” he says in that wonderful rumbling baritone, and Jaskier can feel himself flushing pink. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Geralt’s breeches and tugs him closer, smiling into the kiss that follows.

“I should be saying that to you,” he says softly, running a hand up Geralt’s stomach and thoroughly enjoying the flex of muscle under skin. He skims his fingers lightly over a nipple and freezes when Geralt’s breathing hitches. He smirks up at Geralt, who’s starting to look a bit overwhelmed. He hooks a leg around Geralt’s waist and pushes off the bed while pulling Geralt close, managing to get Geralt flat on his back on the bed while settled on top of his hips. The glass vial of oil rolls onto the sheets and Jaskier grinds into Geralt, fingers gently rubbing his nipples, and he grins at the low moan Geralt lets out.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes out, eyes half-lidded, fingers pressing into Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier lightly pinches as he leans forward, eliciting another moan.

“Yes, darling?” he asks in a teasing singsong lilt. Geralt tangles his hand into Jaskier’s hair and pulls him into a bruising kiss with more than a hint of teeth.

Jaskier pulls away to sit up on his knees and taps Geralt’s hips to get him to lift his ass, then undoes his breeches and tugs them down to his thighs. Jaskier returns to Geralt’s lips and takes his cock in hand, swallowing the keen that he knows Geralt will deny if he ever brings it up.

“Gods,” Jaskier breathes, sitting back on Geralt’s thighs and running his hands over Geralt’s stomach, taking in the near reverent expression on his face, the rise and fall of his chest, the jump of muscles under his hands, the flushed cock leaking pre. “If we didn’t have to travel tomorrow, I would absolutely want that entire thing inside of me,” he says huskily, and Geralt’s spine arches slightly as he shifts, desperate for friction. “As it stands, I don’t much look forward to trying to walk _or_ ride after taking this beauty,” he says with a smile, giving Geralt’s cock a light stroke, looking back at Geralt’s face at the hopeless noise the man utters.

“Jaskier, stop teasing,” Geralt growls, though the effect isn’t nearly as threatening as he’d hoped. Jaskier simply grins at him and starts shimmying his breeches down. His breath wheezes out of him as Geralt wraps a large, warm hand around him and he lets his eyelids flutter closed as little jolts run down his spine. A hand cups his cheek and he opens his eyes again, meeting Geralt’s eyes just as he rubs his thumb right below the head of Jaskier’s dick, and he moans. He grabs the vial of oil and pulls out the cork with his teeth to pour a good amount in his palm to warm up.

He gently takes Geralt’s hand off his dick and presses a chaste kiss to the palm, then takes both of them in hand. Geralt’s thighs shake slightly as he keeps himself from pressing into Jaskier’s grip, and Jaskier starts pressing kisses up Geralt’s chest, stroking nearly painfully slow.

“You’re being so good for me, aren’t you? Staying so still,” he says, and he can hear Geralt’s breaths speed up. He starts stroking a bit faster and he sees Geralt’s teeth sink into his lip, so he bites at Geralt’s collarbone. “Let me hear you,” he pleads, and he can hear Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. “I want to hear those pretty noises, please don’t keep them from me.”

“ _Fuck_ , Jaskier,” Geralt says, once again threading his fingers into Jaskier’s hair, and Jaskier hums at the shiver that runs down his back from the light scratch of blunt fingernails. Jaskier starts sucking a hickie into the base of Geralt’s neck and he moans, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier can feel himself getting close, and he hopes that Geralt isn’t far behind, and starts pumping faster. Geralt’s hips make little aborted movements and he keeps making those beautiful sounds that Jaskier mirrors, muffled in Geralt’s neck.

Geralt comes and he pulls on Jaskier’s hair, which has him coming with a loud moan. He strokes them through the aftershocks, pressing kisses into sweaty skin before sitting up slightly, pushing Geralt’s hair back, and kissing him on the lips, languid and lazy and absolutely perfect.

He forces himself upright and steps fully out of his breeches, then grabs a cloth from the washbasin across the room and cleans them both up a little bit, pressing light kisses into Geralt’s skin. He can’t help it, really. He tugs Geralt’s breeches the rest of the way off and lays next to him, still trying to catch his breath.

Geralt turns to him and gently, hesitantly, pulls him close, and Jaskier makes a small noise of surprise and adoration.

“Oh darling, you’re absolutely lovely,” he says, and Geralt presses himself tighter, hiding his face in Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier’s heart warms at the sight, at the knowledge that Geralt is trusting him with this. “You did so good,” he says, running a hand gently through Geralt’s hair, relishing the small sound that Geralt tries to stifle. “You stayed so still for me, and you sung for me, and I’m so glad that you let me in like this,” he says.

Geralt’s shaking a little bit, holding Jaskier tight. Jaskier holds him just as tight, murmuring praise and petting his hair until he comes back down and pulls away slightly, just enough to be able to look at Jaskier.

“Gods, I love you,” Jaskier says fondly, and Geralt looks surprised, like he’d be blushing if he could. He licks his lips and speaks in a low rumble.

“Love you too,” he says, and Jaskier hums and presses a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips. He squirms as close as he can, and Geralt pulls a dislodged blanket over them. Jaskier mutters a thanks and falls asleep quickly. Geralt studies Jaskier’s face for a moment—peaceful, vulnerable, content. He’s not quite sure how to deal with Jaskier, but he’s gotten this far.


End file.
